Way out in the water
by Hortense
Summary: Cameron and House's paths are uncanny mirrors of each other after last season's finale. Takes place right after Season 5, for which it's spoilery. Strong House/Cameron. Undertones of House/Wilson friendship. Angst/Hurt-Confort/Romance. Rated M for later.
1. Outer Space And Burrows

It felt like night-time itself was on a plane, and the plane was nothing but a burrow. In it lay sleep and impatience, intermitently restless legs, spirits and crosswords, hair and elbows, a new marriage… closure for a honeymoon and anxiety for the future all curled up, laced together like a nest of new-born, trembly feral cubs. The idea kept her subdued, it made her eyes linger, scanning the opaque blackness of the sky on the other side of the window. It made her breath catch in her throat, and then it forced her to swallow, like the sky had descended upon her head, like the dark was tangled in her hair, and the one remedy for it was to adhere to silence. This all-pervading night was so much like the fullness in her heart that the fright of it actually pleased her. Was her heart on a plane, though, like the uncanny, glossy blackness? It was in the dark, that much was for certain. But whether its night was ultimately earthy, snug and warm as a burrow, or wild and gusty and wondrous as space, she was far too wary, far too afraid to ponder.

Her life had unfurled, thus far, between constellations and burrows. Her earliest experiences had revolved mostly around meteor crashes; they had taught her the necessity of strategically located hiding places, the importance of these shelters if she ever was to remain friends with astronomy, or sit out her childhood at all.

She was almost delirious with gratitude on the day she finally found herself as tall as she was ever going to be and on a smaller plane than this, on her way to university - with her ability to love intact.

She had done much star-gazing from then on: both through scholarly microscopes as a doctor-to-be (there are stars in the human body!) and through carefree telescopes as one posessed by youth and beauty, lured by sex, smitten by love. Indeed, she was only twenty-one when she experienced an honest, clean courtship and all that was good and simple in life seemed to slide that ring on her finger. Even if she knew full well that the facts of biology wouldn't let them make forever (it wouldn't even let them make a year), there was still such tenderness there, that she couldn't help being openly thankful. Through all the agony and death that had been promised to her from the beginning, and that soon did come to engulf them, she didn't waver. She knew she was right to love and to be loved - so she greedily squeezed the feeling and lapped up its very last drops, with one foot in the trench and the other high on clouds.

Ten years later, she'd still find herself occassionally lost in a godless prayer, that her onobtrusive, nurse-like ministrations really managed to make a difference in her husband's death, the same way he had once altered her life by cleansing, redeeming her from whatever ill-defined and ancient guilt, the weight of which had been threatening to crush her bones, right up to the day he first uttered clear, almost bashful words of love. He had been worth it, even if his last breath had also meant the birth of many brand new trenches for such a charitable widow to retreat to, and squat at, on and off, through the years.

She stirred in her seat. The man she had loved to the point of volunteering to witness his exhausting, six-month-long death, had, in many ways, been more of a brother to her than a lover. They had had more of a philantropic love affair than a love story, really. So innocent had their bond been, life had come to make her realise. Which inevitably brought her face to face with something else, one uncomfortable realisation she did not wish to dwell on but which kept ambushing her at the oddest of times, doing violence to her, forcing her to remember.

She did remember. And now she desperately wanted to hypnotise herself to sleep, to sink into this flimsiest burrow so strangely infiltrated by the spirit of night, by all that was bottomless and cruel and pure – by _him_, the harsh, rioting love she had known. It refused to be topped, even if it never really began. She had given up. Not because everything about him was nocturnal, black-hole-dangerous, nor blood-thick. Not because she was _too_ scared of him. Certainly not because he was the opposite of the burrow that had ended up becoming her second husband. But because, ultimately, he had proven himself final, unyielding, hamlet-like-undecisive when it came to basic hope, merciless in his merciful choice to spare her. The frustration of loving him would have been her undoing, she rationalised. The man wouldn't let himself be had by someone so young, so naive, so kind, so moral, so delicate, so in love with him; so unready. So be it. Vulcan is not someone one would contemplate staying platonically in love with, so she eventually let him off the hook. She did what she had to do to salvage herself. She left him alone with his cinder and soot.

She shacked up with a friend that loved her childishly, giddily, flatly, who was always at the ready. She dressed up her everyday-like affection for him until it looked good enough to be called bridal, and then she took his last name. She chose life, life in burrows. Sensible. But her heart was almost certainly not in them (even as she fought to extinguish the though in mid-sentence). It was floating in space, raptured and ashamed, still gravitating towards the same singularity, this black hole, the inexcrutability of which made her hysterically sad. Einstein had said it, _the eternal mystery of the world is its comprehensibility. _Why then would he strive so hard to hide from her behind the cruel rules he lived by? And why did he always insist on not comprehending her, on rationalising her love for him, on putting on the tiring show that he knew would finally drive her away, fuming? What angles of being truly understood felt so utterly catastrophic to him? And what would the stuff have taken from him anyway..? Certainly not the sense of wonder, as she would have never, ever, tried to do that to him. Did he ever know at all, though, did he...?

What an useless thing to worry about. Her new husband was snoozing next to her, amicable just because he was on a love trip, and positively gorgeous, his irregular snoring strangely eager-sounding, to the point it was sort of amusing. Her hand went out to him, tenderly, in the way her heart just couldn't. She had officially given up on scalar fields for the sake of her own life's progress, of action, of everything that's wise about the social contract. Her rational mind told her it would be worth it. But her eyes wanted to see stars just like she had secretely wanted to see him, less than a month ago, witnessing her marriage to another, and staying both defeated and strong through it.

Still, true to his style, he had not been willing to allow her even that small, indirect pleasure. Whatever excuse had sufficed to keep him from her side that day...? Not even his much bubblier best friend had shown up on his behalf, as much as he seemed to like her, and when the notion sinked in, it made her feel absurdly chastised.

Emotions boiled under her skin, threatening to marr her features, twisting them into a muffled growl or a whimper any moment soon. They were many, and at odds with one another - in the perfect fighting mood. She tried to pour fresh heart into herself by focusing on the many domestic pleasures awaiting her back in New Jersey, starting with the long-overdue redecoration of her condo and culminating in a brood of blond children she could now set about bearing, next to someone who'd be willing and able to father them. Still, she couldn't picture their faces, she was not capable of bringing them to life with the sole aid of her imagination. Thoughts of seeing _him_ again, in just a couple of days, after her apparently officialised metamorphosis, kept flying through her mind, almost mechanically, vaguely exciting and mostly irritating first; scary next; suddenly beautiful and poignant, and then back to the beginning.

She tried a few sips of her drink (Robert had been weirded out at her latest partiality for scotch; she had rolled her eyes, then blushed inwardly as the truth hit her) and stretched in her seat, not sure whether to turn to sleep or shy away from it anymore. She tried to fool the rising distress by counting her fingers, by counting sheep, by wriggling her toes. But she remained disturbed by the irrational thought that, by walking into this new life of hers, forever protected from the raging skies by rooftops, she might have started to walk herself into a madhouse of sorts. That her heart saw stars where the world at large saw a crippled, curmudgeoning old bastard, was a fact. Still, he had made his choices, what had to be, had to be, and her hands were tied. He had taken an almost loving degree of care to make sure they were.


	2. The Fisher King Hears Voices

**Disclaimer:** Don't sue. Like the Persians would say, I only do this for the profit of my own heart.

* * *

_Where is my mind..? _ he hummed under his breath, reclining his head on the wall behind him, steadying himself for the multiplicity of voices he knew would immediatly burst in, like mad horses, to surround him, and spin him around, shower him with eager, disjointed answers that wanted to be the truth but couldn't, simply because he knew that he shouldn't trust himself. His head was a choral room. He was a conductor of voices. He was a king, with a retinue of sound. He was king of himself now he had desintegrated.

He wanted to get better. He was pathetically earnest about that. But he wouldn't let himself implode for the sake of function any longer. More than anything, he had always strived to live in truth. Now it was time to learn to juggle will and representation, truth and survival. There had to be a way. There had to be some solace that wasn't an illusion, that wasn't a distraction, that wasn't a concession. There had to be some solace in life that was real.

He was ashamed of his behaviour during the months leading up to his coronation. Every day he blushed at his weakness, at his failure to foresee what was coming his way before the voices were curtseying deeply and it was already too late. Mostly, he was distressed by his most human, panicked reaction to his own derailment. How readily, how hysterically he had deserted every single thing he believed in, to try and clutch desperately and lose himself in the human bondage! Lose himself, yes, lest he would lose it! That was exactly what had happened to him. And in the process he had hurt and manipulated himself, and others.

Therapy was slow and painful. Insight, far from spectacular. Each little piece of himself he managed to rescue, every memory or fact he learnt to make sense of felt as glacial and injured to him as epiphanies come. He had been terrified right out of his senses, that every gift nature had seemingly bestowed upon him was nothing but an accident at heart, a side effect of an inner disposition that was inherently diseased, unmaintainable, pointless. The lower he fell, the more he convinced himself salvation would come in the shape of a plaster. His non-mimetic heart and his cruel brains were driving him mad. They were incompatible with living. He would have to sacrifice meaning for a parachute, and come off them, straight into the arms of something... agreeable. His dean of medicine friend had easily met all the criteria, and he had ran for cover in her mouth.

She was dyametrically opposed to all the puzzles that had been the passion, the knife of his life; first of all because she had always made graceful, perfect sense to him, with her square intellect, her quick wit, her matronly curves and her quivering authority. For many years now they had remained implicitly loyal to each other. Through grinning banter, companiable silence and playful flirtation, her presence in his life had proven systematically reassuring. He cared about her, that was a fact. Actually, in many ways, he did see himself as her rightful firstborn, and, like any spoiled child, he could be sharply competitive, aggressive, vehement even, when it came to securing his priviledged spot at the nurturing breast. Also, like any scared child, he instinctively knew how to run to his mother when things seemed to be simply falling apart, and all he could make out around him was danger.

No-one saw anything remotely wrong when he started to unravel and his hint at an aedypus-complex started to develop into a crutch. Ironically, his very own best friend read the whole situation as a golden chance for good old House to build himself up, instead of as his very neurotic, last attempt at gambling with himself, looking to trade his every dream for whatever might be left of his sanity. He forgave the man, though, for Wilson's character was made out of postmodernity. In his book, whatever felt good was also the right thing, and it would just not be denied.

House smiled to himself, sadly, then he rolled his tired eyes. Who could have told him he was to be crawling back to the same social contract he had been kicking in the shins ever since his father's belt got used to drawing blood, in another lifetime..?

And, would he have believed them at all when that someone stated, perfectly matter-of-factly, how he was also going to be pleading for succor of all things? How he was _so_ going to beg permission to limp back into himself and stay there, in the center of nothing, actively stirring lumps of cheap sugar back into his own life...?

Who could have told him he would finally grow weary of enduring, he who thought of himself as a pure martyr of the will!

The latest fruits of much therapeutical soul-searching: it was clear that his attachment to Lisa Cuddy was but a typical case of human bondage. Like a regular Philip Carey, he had banked on his domestic feelings for a good woman to help him turn the volume of the congenital screams down, perhaps, even, to lower them into a whisper. Of course, no real resolution was to ever be found there, but, being gently tied down by Sally must be enough for a man, after total freedom's revelation of itself as nothing but an act of pure, blunt destruction has thrown him into a state that could well be fatal. When the subject is too much, one has to make do with discourse, right? In the light of it all, he had danced to the beat of self-preservation, just because he had to.

He winced. He had not even understood he was not playing fair with Cuddy during those nerve-wracking months precceeding his enthronisation. All he knew then was that it was of paramount importance that she may see him, and let him in, that she may rock her hips against his own like she were rocking a baby; that she protect him. That she cover him in plasters and declare his sickness. That she convince him. And that she may attempt to hook him up to her clement feeding tubes. That was all that mattered, all that was on his mind as he abused her feminine feelings. It had all been about him. But in his defense, he suspected he had chosen her because, after all, she was pretty no-nonsense and just a bit callous, enough of a big girl and selfish enough to deal with, and survive, the injury he would no doubt end up inflicting upon her, without him having to shoulder the blame of having permanently soiled her.

This is how Gregory House had tried to undo his own damage, in a panic, by offering his extremities to the most immediate bondage that he could come up with. He had hoped that maybe then life would dare try and go on. Its distractions would kindly take away the obsession, replace it with mundane stability. He knew it would be forever reliant, and would only work by extinguishing the genuine, restless aspirations of his heart – but he would go ahead and do it. He really would comply if only that would set him straight.

The plaster. The plaster would see him through a valley of a life, remind him not to stray again, endow him with the one perspective through which he could be judge, point of reference, the beginning and ending of any question that might arise in the future. As he fought to retreat to the human factor, to the realms of the personal, he grieved against his second-nature need to trascend himself.

_Maybe if I could stop chasing the truth, and find myself instead, I would just come to join the hoardes of people that populate the globe, revelling in their own small, petty circumstances, and actually bring myself to laugh through it. I could learn to accept life as it comes by accepting myself. _

For that he would have to amputate the part of him that was more than just human, that much was a given; but, in return, he might allow himself to finally make peace with his most loathed antagonist: perfect, complacent egotism – a beast much less harmful than his own compulsive acts of aspiration, after all. When push came to shove, he thought he would be able to enforce any self-betrayal it took to survive, to cry, loud and clear, for mercy.

Everyday, utilitaristic perspective: there sure is abundant mercy to be found in it, even if it is deceitful. He had been so afraid of careening, that he had blindly focused on mercy. Even if it hurt him. His subconscious battled him, berated him. That is how Gregory House had come to choose life, inconsistent and subjective, fickle and banal as it might be.

But then, things just happened to be so – it just didn't work. After all, half of his plan had sensibly decided to retreat, to protect herself from him at the most critical moment, and he had ended up king of his poor abolished self regardless, fishing for extinguished prey with which to placate the hunger of _his people,_ all the while more serene and collected than he would have ever given himself credit for.

His plight was fair.

The dilemma that now stood before him said he might just have to go down, because he patently couldn't bear to take refuge in existencial lies, but that he also wanted to live. His recuperation would have to pass through finding a truth that could offer him some solace, or it would not happen at all. If he couldn't find one such truth anywhere, eventually, he decided he would just lay his body down, limp on the parched-up earth, and let his memory of a woman named Amber take the first devouring bite at his heart. Hopefully, the other voices would quickly follow her lead, and feed, feast on him till there was nothing left.

Either way, this much was certain: through black wretchedness, he could only take heart in the fact he had done right by one single person: the same sweet, sweet person who - bless her - had once _got_ him enough to accede to be sucked into the blackhole that he called his heart, to be dismembered by his love. He regarded the sound of her young, bell-like laughter as his greatest victory: he'd taken a fanatical degree of care to make sure it was preserved. Every single time he heard it, his chest filled with pride. For her to have taken his cue and broken the hold of his impish paws - for his impish paws to have remotely let her. The neglectful disdain he had persistently taught her to adopt for him, it sure slayed him. It slayed him. But it was nothing compared to the joy brought along by the sound of her laughter.

Before this whole kingdom of madness thing became truly unpostponable, when it was still merely half-done closing in on him, he had spent time making sure his attitude towards her would forward the cause of her happiness. This is because, she was days away from being married, and there had been a glitch, and her heart was not nearly made-up. A lot was at stake. He was fragile; Still he had listened to her woes and volunteered the kind of advice he would have never followed himself: to embrace this chance at happiness because happiness is a basic need of life, a rightful end in itself. Luckily his word was still law to her. She did not see through its unlikeliness. She mansely obeyed it.

He would have liked to be at her wedding, half nauseated, half moved as he was forced to mentally surrender the last part of her that was his to another. He was sure she had looked like an angel that day, that she had hardly noticed his absence, that she would have agreed with him on how his stubborn, deflating rejection of her had not really broken her heart – it had freed it instead, allowed it to make it to this tender moment. Her marriage had sealed his victory, a victory over himself: for her sake, all for her sake, always.

He almost chuckled when suddenly assaulted by a memory, and then it dawned on him, finally enlightened in the gloom of the madhouse, that he really did not like her: he loved her monstruously instead, yes, love can only be so violent when it has started with a certain disgust.

Both the disgust and the love seemed to stem from the fact that she truly was the perfect, uncongenial alien of idealistic literature, hardly ever materialised in life. There was so much courage, so much truth, so much isolation in her unfaltering gentility and kindness, that one could say she was living her life for reasons utterly uncomprehensible, and hence repellent, to the human logics of self-preservation. She was as pure as everything that is inevitable about life. And the inevitabilities of life are hardly likeable. Then, of course, there was also the marvellous terror of recognition, because mysterious and puzzling as she still appeared before him, his heart seemed to instinctively know hers. That only added to his scrupulous sense of wonder. She was a lot like himself. Essentially, so like him, that her company meant endlessly disturbing confirmation of the visionary poetic words _"I am another"._

She was meant for him now, in more ways than he cared to count. But he had figured out, early on, that so good a person couldn't _also_ be too well-adjusted. That had made him instantly retain himself. She was interested in being right over being happy, and, by consistently putting her down, by discouraging her and routinely frustrating himself with his frigid resolution, he had always strived to prevent her from following down the same dark, torturous road he was on. He feared it might be in her nature too. He just couldn't do it to her.

Aided by the passing of years, he had plainly succeeded at leaving a large part of her out of his conscious mind, thus hoping to have been able to lessen the lovely, embarrassing burden of her. He was well resigned to these facts of life already: Allison Cameron was sweet, terrifying, forbidden fruit. But still, for this time, he closed his eyes shut and cheated, imagined her arriving at work in just a couple of days, not even a little excited about the prospect of running into him in the ER - or anywhere, for that matter - , only to receive the news of his latest fall from grace from the lips of a most gentlemanly James Wilson.

Would she need to take a seat afterwards? Or would she go through the remains of the day, seemingly unscathed? Would she wait to be safe in her car before letting her tears fall? Or had he just become a source of superficial conversation to her, over dinner, a couple of remarks addressed to her distracted husband, on how the old, sad, old mentor had clearly _always_ had it coming..?

He hoped for her sake that the latter scenario was true. But still, for an instant, his heart craved the sight of her so badly; it was necessary, just like hallucinations of making bionic love to her had shown him the way to the truth, years before, and helped him rise over the prospect of madness – after he was shot in the neck for no other reason than his runway mouth.

She was not a nurse. She was a muse. He let out a groan and temporarily capitulated. He fantasised about her, perhaps heavily pregnant and glowing, finally visiting the ruined darkness of his castle-like asylum, smiling at him; holding him; humilliating him by seeing him like this.

After all, he was really not a hero. He was the fisher king of a hovering wasteland, in his choral room, entertained by his retinue of voices, very likely to end up executed by a roaring mob of the very same subjects who would then waste no time to drown their nihilistic selves into the spot where they had discorteously tossed his still open-eyed, severed head; that is, _way, _way out in the salt, shallow water.


	3. Eyes

**To those of you who are reading: thank you.**

* * *

She leaned at the sink, splashed cold water against her face. She was spooked by the indefinity of her half-lit reflection in the mirror. She was not sure she had eyes. Impulsively, she brought a pair of clumsy hands to her face, began to palpate it. Her fingertips pressed against her eyelids and it hurt. She was sick of listening to her own mental chatter. She took a step forward, squinted at her image, confirmed it too had eyes. They were two slitty, black smudges. _Oh God, I am you. _She muttered, as if she had to make her thoughts known to some silent third party standing in the shadows of her bathroom. She avoided her image on her way out.

Back in her bed, she gingerly stretched her limbs. Her toes found her husband's heel. She startled herself by crumbling down immediately. She was a fool, devoid of the good sense to hurry back out of the room and get this done without compromising herself. Instead, she was stuffing her fist into her mouth, too upset by the day's reports for any further caution. Thankfully, Robert breathed heavily. She let herself shake harder. The room was pitch-black around her, but the news that had taken long hours to sink in, the anxious tears that were finally rolling down her cheeks, were proof enough of her eyes' existence.

***

He was dreaming of asphyxia and a pressure cooker. It ticked loudly; in it boiled a prickly bush, pulled out by its roots, that was to be his last meal. Bubbling air smacked and pushed against the stainless steel walls, as it was held in by the gasket. As pressure and the boiling point of water increased together, he brought his sweaty hands precisely around his throat. His fingers started squeezing. And then, the relief valve opened suddenly, began to release a hissing jet of steam. Desperately, he twisted the oval lid open and plunged his head into the pot. His face and his lungs burned and blistered as he inhaled the fumes of sterile water. He was left instantly blind by the discovery of limp, familiar white and purple flowers soaking, quivering where consumed roots and thorns had been expected. The flowers had once belonged in a corsage, waited nervously in his refrigerator. Now they were scalding his tongue, the roof of his mouth, the back of his throat, as he avidly, breathlessly swallowed them, eyeless.


	4. Wordshed: Lamp

**You've shown me awesomeness in a handful of reviews! I thank you for that. **

**Also, _BunchofGrapes_ wondered about the potential of dialogue in this story. She was wise to do so and I hope she'll find the next chapter agreeable. Dialogue just couldn't come right away, because of internal structure concerns: in their approximation to each other, our two main characters are following a strict pattern of thinking first, speaking next - and if you have a little bit of patience, you'll soon be hearing them speak to each other. **

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_"Are you feeling better?"_

Robert asked, gingerly patting her back. Five minutes earlier, the kitchen sink had been the only sight that she could tolerate. Everything else had been wished away, but now she found she was just able to bend her neck far enough to glance at him, and she took a ragged breath.

_"Yes." _– her temples were pearled with sweat – _"Lets just sit down."_

He led her to the sofa. She checked her pulse discreetly. He poured himself a glass of wine.

_"You'll be on call all day tomorrow again__, right?" _

She crossed her legs like an indian; he shrugged.

_"I'd expect so__. But good news is, if we haven't finally figured things out by the evening, we might as well count our losses and go for a long weekend. Certainly, the patient won't care anymore. Any place you'd like to see...?"_

He smiled a cold, cheshire cat's smile, then drank up.

_"You must try what we talked ab__out last night." _She said weakly. _"If I'm right..."_

_"First we must find some proof to back up your hunch__." – _he interrupted –_ "It won't have been by my hand if she departs this life. There's only so much a human liver can handle in the way of experiments, you unlikely little Mengele." _

She exhaled audibly._  
_

_"If it works, do you want me to quote you..?"_

_"You don't need to__." _She outlined a small smile, shook her head.

The curtains swelled and waved as the invisible chill of dusk stole into the room.

_"So, how does it feel to be back?"_

_"Things __are different now... it doesn't feel like being back at all. Everyone wants to put their feet on the table, and working under Foreman is like working for Idi Amin. Not even Remy can stand him these days. We riot and we sabotage one another. Give me a couple of months, though, and I think I might just have the upper hand."_

_"Do y__ou think a temporary arrangement is worth such an outpour of cunning?" _She raised an eyebrow. He squinted at her.

_"T__emporary you say? Nothing temporary about becoming Head of Diagnostics. I only need to keep getting more cases right than I do wrong, and for __Foreman not to be right in my face whenever I can't help to screw up."_

He grimaced comically, then raised his glass, giving her a transactional nod.

_"What I mean__ is" _– she said with a thread of voice – _"House will come back eventually. What good will all of this have done, then?"_

_"He'__ll be back" _– Robert parodied her tone – _"Don't be ridiculous. He'll be lucky if his drug-induced psychosis doesn't prove chronic. Now, do you happen to know many practising doctors on anti-psychotics?"_

_"According to Wilson, __he's responding to therapy. He's been detoxing."_

A dismissive flick of the hand cut her off.

_"Getting one's medical license back__ after a trip to the funny farm is no piece of cake. Best case scenario, he's looking at untreatable physical pain for the rest of his life. He __already __was__ in __a pretty __sad fix when on vicodin, so I doubt he's going to be able to walk upright, let alone think straight now that going bareback has become his only option. You think he's matchless; no-one is really. We're perfectly qualified to take over."_

_"And yet your patient is dying__" – _she noted dryly_ – "Aren't you curious what he would have to say about that?"_

_"Right now, I assume it __would be material worth of "Something Flew Over The Cuckoo Nest", so no. I'll spell it out for your benefit: he is damaged goods. Say he's making a remarkable recovery, and Cuddy takes pity on him: he'll be able to rejoin the team - as nothing more than an advisor. His every epiphany will have to be supervised from now on. Personally, I would rather remember the man at his best; the mere idea of having him parked back in the office like a dismal shadow is surely disturbing enough." – _Robert paused for the sake of suspense, then startled her by loudly, theatrically smacking her thigh _- "The silver lining is, maybe by then I will be in the position to offer you a job! How would you like being his nurse? He'd get to vent his spleen all over you, you'd get to wipe up his drool while cooing sweet nothings and the rest of us would be able to get the job done in some semblance of peace. I think it's a win-win."_

_"You don't mean a word you just said."_

He stretched his legs, defiantly._  
_

_"I kinda do; t__he man has done himself in."_

_"I know __that." _– she interjected, hoarsely – _"Aren't you even a little upset for him?"_

_"Of course I'__m very upset for him; but I'm also excited for myself." _– he looked out the window and swallowed - _"This is a great opportunity. __He wouldn't expect me not to take it."_

_"That's so__ convenient for you."_

_"Well, t__echnically, it's convenient for you too" _

_"__We don't need any more money."_

_"We don't n__eed to overdose on your lofty morals either. Jesus, you're as much of an addict as House is. At least now you're seeing where the stuff leads. I say you grow a backbone and start supporting your husband."_

He stood up briskly and, once again, made for the liquor cabinet. Allison was still silent after he had poured himself a second glass of wine, her frame blurry in the darkness. He hesitated; retraced his steps; sat beside her.

_"Look, House__'s mess is entirely of his own making. Still, I'm aware of what I owe him. I do like him. If he allowed it, I would visit."_

She unclenched slightly as she murmured_:_

_"I tried to __see him yesterday. I drove up to Mayfield and I harassed the reception clerk for fifteen minutes, but he still left me out."_

_"Hardly surprising" _– Robert articulated, warily, stealing a glance at her from the corner of his eye – _"Why would you even bother?"_

_"I needed to see him.__" _

She said simply. He scoffed.

_"When don't you."_

His eye was dark, despondent. She faintly whispered his name. He sighed.

_"You yearn for him."_

_"I feel for him."_

He snickered_.  
_

_"So you had to go and let him know of the hole he has burnt in your young life. And then, what? Cry on his shoulder till he ends up reassuring you that he's aaalmost out of the woods? Why Allison, what a lovely way to help."_

_"You know nothing and you're an ingrate." _She scowled. _ "Remember, he forbade Cuddy from opening her mouth in order not to spoil our wedding day."_

_"And that's why going through a stack of our honeymoon pictures with you will make him all better.__" _

There was a species of gelid, cynical amusement in his face. Her brow furrowed.

_"__He was sensitive to us. You should value that."_

_"Nah. Most likely it was Cuddy's idea.__ The only fact worth mentioning here is __your inability to let go. He is a big boy now, and you have yourself to worry about; just let him fly already."_

_"Since h__e's obviously soaring up in the sky at this very moment." – _she rolled her eyes_ – "Don't you think he could use some acknowledgement under the circumstances?"  
_

_"Not really. He doesn't need the stuff__. You do. It's rather worrying"_

Her voice came out flat.

_"Yes. I a__m soft and weak. __And he's so totally antipode to me that he has no heart at all. What a great excuse for you not to dirty up your hands." _

_"Blah, blah, blah. Please. The man is hardly spending his days staring at his fellows' pictures with tear-filled eyes. C'mon, - _he nudged her_ - don't sulk. You really don't need to hover. As long as Cuddy and Wilson are on the Princeton Plainsboro board, I assure you House won't end up destitute, sleeping in cardboard boxes in some park."_

_"That is reassuring". _She sighed, abashed and aware of the futility of delving into a stillborn conversation's guts. Instead, she regaled him with a tentative half-smile._ "Would you like a bite to wash down that wine? I went to the store today and we have all sorts of goodies."_

_"Nah."_ He breathed forth._ "I think I'm done with the bottle for the day. Do you want anything?" _

"_Not really. How about we have ourselves an early night?" _She offered._ "You have a long day ahead of you tomorrow." _

He leaned in, planting a kiss on her hair. She lightly stroked his cheek and attempted to stand up.

_"I might have a better idea." _He purred, holding her in place. He splayed his hand against her lower abdomen, under her t-shirt. If his fingertips had had eyes, she was sure they would have glowered.

_"I__'m exhausted."_

She whispered._  
_

_"You're racked with nerves lately."__ – _he started massaging her shoulder with one hand while the other one battled the buttons of her jeans _- "The ER is so not for you. Shame you were not offered back into the team, but then..." - _he started pushing her jeans down her hips_ - "...I could pretty much see it coming; Cuddy has it in for you." – _he half cooed, half laughed_ – "Come, unclench, this is also in your best interest..."  
_

Her chest stung like it had been stuffed with cooking salt.

_"I feel drunk."_

_ "All the better for me."_

_"I mean it."_

_"Don't be boring. N__ow, hop on. The sooner you're done here, the sooner you'll be dreaming of sheep." – _he kissed her loosely while bringing his hand between her thighs, and then he plunged his fingers into her vagina, breaking her in bluntly. She moaned. He hummed. _"You're so tight down there."  
_

He switched on the lamp by the sofa, revealing a malicious glint in his eye. Minutes later she was erratically riding him to orgasm. His hands had a vice-like grip on her hips. The clock on the wall ticked loudly. She felt dry as a bone. The night breeze was coldish. It strained over her breasts, monotonous, steady. It gave her goosebumps. She went back to fragments of a favourite poem by Mallarmé. Reading it, she had once been struck by a flash of recognition. Since then, she had planned to recite it against the chest, against the jarred thigh of her troubled beloved in the middle of a long-overdue, almost abject act of lust. How vividly she had conjured up the sight of his blue eyes crying sparks instead of tears as she took him over! The sound of her own voice akin to pain, to joy. The echo bouncing between them, those words parting his lips sweetly, darkly, full of meaning, travelling down his throat and into his stomach. Now, she bit her tongue. Once more, she intrenched her body. Her mind flew right out the open window. She thought:

_The flesh is sad_

And:

_Nothing  
_

_Can restrain this heart that drenches itself in the sea,_

_O nights, or the abandoned light of my lamp..._

_A Boredom, made desolate by cruel hope_

_Still believes _

_Lost, without masts, without masts, no fertile islands..._

_But, oh my heart, listen to the sailor!_

The day before, a reception clerk at Mayfield had partially caved and promised to bring her bouquet of white and purple flowers to the man that would not see her. He had even asked if she would like him to pass any message along. She had wanted to quickly scribble the obscure words on a note, but then she decided to act on her respect for him by staying silent. She knew her little, lame offering would ring a bell and it would exasperate him. But, maybe, just maybe, it would also make him laugh.

The glum, mastless building had scared her as she managed to wet her lips on the frustrating proximity of him. Tonight, though, she was letting herself be entered, her eyes closed. There was no sea breeze, no oblivion, solace nor recognition to be found in lamplight, in married sex, in married, aborted conversation. She was grief. Her release was forged. No water.


	5. Wordshed: Valleys

**_Ok guys: I'm still very much among the living! And I'm not one to start what I can't finish, so here's chapter V - better late than never, I dare hope? _**

**_

* * *

_**

WORDSHED: VALLEYS

_"So she still trusts me."_ He winced. _"How is she__?"_

_"Relieved. In more ways than one". _The contrition in Wilson's voice was tentative.

_"That's good"._ He was relieved too. He was sure his body language gave him away, which was just as well. Wilson sighed.

_"You mean that"._

There was acceptance in his voice, and a bit of embarrassment. An apology in his eyes for having chanted the praise of the will-o'-the-wisp.

_"Yes"._

Wilson nodded.

_"She wants you to accept. In any case, it would be nice if I could pass an answer along before Friday; she's taking Rachel to the country." _

House's eyes fluttered. Wilson appeased.

_"It'll be just a couple of hours every saturday, totally unofficial. Baby steps."_

House's silence was lugubrious, oddly brought forward by breath. A kind of shame was lit up in it: it was not for public consumption, to the point that, for a moment, Wilson felt he should make up for the impudence of having eyes to view it.

_"I wouldn't ask you to do this if I didn't think you were ready". _He nudged his arm, struggling to melt a handful of flippancy into gravity. "_It's anarchy in there. Their last patient has morphed into a lawsuit."_

_"You two must be in deep shit;''_ House grimaced._ "banking on a psychotic, crippled junkie to restore your law and order gone awry? I hope you know it's pretty tragic."_

_"Ah, House. You get tragedy where the tree, instead of bending, breaks. You're just bowing right now."_

He recognised the words immediately, and the new-found irony in them made him chuckle.

_"Bending over is what I'm doing."_

Wilson smiled, amused and emboldened.

_"All they need is a reminder of the natural order of things."_

House grappled with Wilson's smile. He tried to lose the dead weight by letting his stare spill out the window.

_"My commanding presence is all gone"._

Wilson cooed like a pigeon:

_"Your word will still be law. They'll be surprised to find out it is, even under the circumstances. So they regain perspective and you get a sneak preview of being back where you belong. It will be good."_

_"Nothing will be the same"._

Wilson interrupted.

_"Everything's been arranged. Chase drew the shorter stick. We'd be meeting at his." _

House stood up impulsively and glared.

_"No"._

Wilson's sudden, upbeat smirk was utterly safe, unwitting. _"What? It's either that or having your rapidly degenerating ducklings nestle in your precious, private living quarters... I didn't think you'd prefer that"._

House hissed soundlessly.

_"There's a third way. We could have them all nestle in Amber's precious, private living quarters...." _he stopped himself, let his head hang low and breathed in and out. _"– Don't worry. I'm not gonna make you do it". _

Wilson unclenched and swallowed; raised his eyebows; tried to free his voice, enticing and cunning:

_"Which means _you_ are game."_

A moment of merciful silence bridged between them. The throat was tired, constrained:

_"If you'll be there"._

The words were soft and round and gentle as cotton.

Wilson attempted a smile that didn't come; then his stare fell ackwardly over the vase in the corner.

_"Who's been here, other than me?"_

_"What are you talking about?"_

_"The flowers." _He pointed_. "Whose are they?"_

_"It's none of your business"._

Wilson inspected him, all wide eyes and raised eyebrows, for what seemed like forever._  
_

_"Cameron came to Mayfield last week."_

House rasped. His friend walked up to the side table with casual, avid eyes.

_"You saw her?"_

_"The janitor gave me the stuff. She must have bribed him"._

_"And you brought them back home with you for the weekend."_

Wilson frowned. His incredulity was growing sharper as it closed in on facts. House braced himself.

_"They were withering already. Dying at home. S'posed to be humane"._

He shrugged and nodded at nothing in particular, ashamed of his mumbling. Hoped for no more wordshed.

_"That's quite a girl she is, isn't she?_

There was that tone, repting like a snake across the garden of Eden. House had to look away.

_"Are you listening?"_

He was. Wilson's voice was anxious, careful. Even-edged, dishevelled at the centre. Friendship between men was an art of revelation through deceit, and God, was he shagged out.

_"Yes"._ He whizzed.

_"And, so?"_

"_I'm following Wittgenstein: There are remarks that sow and remarks that reap, but whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent._"

Wilson reflected for a moment, before his face lit up.

_"What can be shown, cannot be said! Hey, you may be seeing her next week; could that be anything to do with your refusing to do the differential? You should be glad she can be so graceful to someone who has made no bones about the fact she revolts him."_

House flinched uglily.

_"Someone who knows too much finds it hard not to lie."_

Hissed he, and Wilson's pupils throbbed and widened. He gaped, suddenly dumbstruck by the plainness of the truth. He mentally beat himself up to an inch of his life, but when he attempted to speak, all he could do was whine an accusation.

_"Fucking hell, House... you never shared this with me."_

Both men sat back in silence, stared out the window, surveyed the wreckage. Eventually, Wilson understood there was some dignity to it.

Later that night, in the shadows, the corner of House's eye caught blonde hair spread on his pillow. He chose to let her in, zealously even. He knew this could well be the last time.

She rolled onto her side and smiled delicately, pointing between his eyes.

_"You and I look so alike. Same eyes, same nose. I'm almost as tall as you are"._

_"Same pj's. Fancy a drink?"_

_"Bad idea. Let's just stay in bed... we've missed home, yeah?" _

_"You..."_

He couldn't quite decide on what to say, so he just let the words choke in his throat. He locked eyes with her. She was upset. He wondered if he was too.

_"I'm sorry I tortured you. I'm sorry I couldn't let go"._

He shook his head.

_"Don't sweat it. I don't know why we are here, but I'm pretty sure that it is not in order to enjoy ourselves."_

_"My, we just can't seem to let the quotefest to end!"_

She propped herself up on one elbow. He chuckled sadly as she moved to rest a gentle hand on his chest.

_"That's fine, if it makes you more at ease. There's things you've not allowed me to speak of yet." _

_"That's because the world is independent of my will. And don't you roll those freakish eyes at me; it should be."_

_"Still nothing is so difficult as not deceiving oneself." _She nudged his shoulder with hers. _"See, the truth will always be able to handle _you_. Now, the right question should always be asked in reverse..."_

He looked down at the bedsheets. She cupped his chin in her hand.

_"I think you can. You're meant to be the man with the answers after all." _

He closed his eyes, breath hitched in his throat as she started rubbing his cheek with one cold thumb.

_"Rejecting the joy of the truth is as wrong as indulging in meaningless joy, sweetling. You know you're about to do the right thing, huh?"_

_"At what price?"_ He croaked.

_"At any price, you fool."_

She whispered, almost lovingly. But then House snickered and she sneered.

_''What? What, do you think I hurt Wilson? I never used him to get away from myself and he didn't use me to find a reason to crawl back into his own skin, just so you know"._

House tried to hold her gaze, but fizzled out all the way when he realised this wave of contempt was coming from him, right at himself._  
_

_"I know. But much has been lost. I have no right, and it would be stupid"._

That's when she just sat up in excitement, a climax of sorts flashing amply across her face._  
_

_"Oh, oh, but here it comes now! Our greatest stupidities may be very wise! Or: never stay up on the barren heights of cleverness, but come down into the green valleys of silliness!"_

She laughed a giddy, girlish laugh that got him wondering: had it been artfully designed to support her point, or was it just the carefree laugh of the victor..? Sodding Wittgenstein be damned to hell and back._  
_

_"Maybe this is not such a good idea after all, you know, the man also wrote moronic stuff, like 'you learned the concept _pain_ when you learned language'."_

Amber shook her head, slowly, empathetically, luxuriating in his defeat:_  
_

_"Really, House. When one is frightened of the truth then it is never the whole truth that one has an inkling of."_

_"...And...'' _He crooned in resignation_ ''That's the check-mate you've been angling for all day"._

_"There is truth in life, dude. You've known the promise of it.''  
_

_"I don't have anything to offer her.'' _He rolled his eyes._ ''I'm not anything at all''._

_''And yet you're hers.''_

_"It feels like I'm rubbing you out twice"._

_"We're not here to enjoy ourselves.. at the expense of what matters. If I have to be off, so be it. I can take one for the team''.  
_

He grabbed her wrist.

_"Don't"._

Still she stood up, running her hands through her hair._  
_

_"Love's true nature is hardly adorable. You should do well at it"._

He raised a quizzical eyebrow at this. She shrugged.

_''I did well at love. Why wouldn't you?''_

_''I don't have great boobs and lovely hair to make up for the refined edge of my most vulgar character flaws.''_

She laughed at him, cruelty and good humour all balled-up together.

_''Really?''_

He looked down.

_''Really. I'm sorry. So sorry I took it all away from you.''_

She grimaced, but sat down again. He could feel both her nervousness and the twig of hope sprouting in her chest as she rambled._  
_

_''What's done can't be undone, but that's both death and life. Are you sure that something that did happen can really, really die? It can't un-happen, that's for certain. Remembered or not.. facts remain. They remain, facts, yeah?''_

_"Maybe I could bring you back every once in a while''._

_''We could do that. I can't promise you that I'll always be nice. For that, you would have to really know yourself, which sucks.''_

_''That's fair enough for me.''_

Amber looked at the ceiling. Her foot was tapping on the floor, insistently, in a way that almost made House's eyes water._  
_

_"Pfff, that Wilson. He loved me so much... but I loved him more.''_

_"He still does."_

House offered._  
_

_"Yeah... yeah. And you're going to be strong. One's got to be strong when it comes to love.''  
_

_ ''Vladimir and Estragon, that's us, I tell ya.''_

_''Only we know better than to sit around and wait for nothing.'' _

When he winced and brought a hand to his thigh, overtaken by a jolt of pain, she stole a concerned glance at him, then intimately placed her head on his shoulder.

_''How did that song go now, I've seen your flag in the marble arch, but love is not a victory march.. ''_

_"It's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah"._

He groaned, rolling his eyes as she turned to face him.

_"That's it.. sing with me."_

He refused, shaking his head. She enticed, nodding.

_"I heard there was a secret chord.."_

_"No"._

She leaned in, a tight, confidential little smile on her lips and a grin in her eyes.

_"That David played, and it pleased the Lord.."_

He scoffed.

_"But you don't really care for music, do ya..?''_

She pouted. He smiled in spite of himself, a murderous smile that spurred her on.

_"And it goes like this: the fourth, the fifth.."_

Low and sombre, he entered:

_"The minor fall and the major lift... the baffled king composing Hallelujah".._

Her voice joined in comfortably, mirthful next to his own.

"Hallellujah... Hallellujah..."

His voice started rising, free and unpretentiously.

_"Your faith was strong but you needed proof_

_You saw her bathing on the roof_

_Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew ya_

_She tied you to her kitchen chair_

_She broke your throne and she cut your hair_

_And from your lips she drew the hallellujah.._

_Well, maybe there's a god above_

_But all I've ever learned from love_

_Was how to shoot somebody who outdrew you_

_And it's not a cry that you hear at night_

_It's not somebody who's seen the light_

_It's a cold and it's a broken hallellujah..''_

So they sang away, sitting up on bed, long legs carelessly stretched out in the halflight; hadn't Picasso and his posse sung about the Commune, gathered around a table in the wee little hours too? Her voice rose over his in gentle harmonics and his arm reciprocated, hanging loosely around her shoulders. He was a man forever too drunk for balance. Dangling between triumph and defeat, he was sure he would want to kiss her hand before she left tonight. But first he would try to face the music, make it last. Under her evanescent, watchful eye, he stroke up a pact of friendship with the dead, which quite possibly extended to himself.


End file.
